Halloween haunting ,a story by greg ,(reader's discretion is strongly advice)+15
Westman sat in his patrol vehicle and searched
the Internet on his phone. He pulled up a screen
and spoke to himself quietly as he skimmed the
article. “Her name was Raven…guilty of
witchcraft in 1870, a year after Hilliard had been
incorporated…residents, confused and scared by
her dark practices, attacked her at her home on
Halloween night and set her on fire…Raven ran
into the cornfields where she burned to death…
body never recovered…”
Westman looked out the window to see if York
was on his way back yet. There was no sign of
him. Westman stepped out of the car and slipped
his phone back into his pocket. He shut the door
and put his hand on his gun holster as he started
to make his way up the driveway. The air was
getting colder and the cornstalks rustled as
Westman walked along the side of the house. A
loud „kaw‟ caught his attention and he looked up
into the sky. He watched the pitch black raven
fly overhead and land on the roof of the barn
again. Westman gulped nervously and moved
slowly towards the barn. The door was open and
he could see nothing but blackness inside. He
put his hand on the barn door and peeked his
head into the darkness
"York?” he quietly called out. There was no
answer from inside. Inside the barn, a creaking
sound emerged from the dark. It sounded like
someone walking on a fragile wooden floor.
Westman‟s heart began to beat faster – he
could feel it throbbing in his ears. “York?” he
whispered into the barn. He couldn‟t see
anything. He reached for the flashlight on his
belt and flipped it on. He pointed it into the
shadows and moved it along the back wall. In
the small glowing circle of light, he saw hay bails
sitting against the wall – one of them with a
pitchfork sticking straight out of the top of it. He
continued to slowly move the light across the
wall. There were boxes covered in white sheets,
rakes leaning up against the wall, and…a black
cauldron. Westman squinted to make sure he
saw it right. The cauldron was large – maybe
five feet across and three to four feet deep.
Something was sticking out of the top of it, but
he couldn‟t see what it was. Westman took a
small step into the barn and slowly walked
through it, keeping his flashlight focused on the
cauldron. He got close enough and noticed that
there was a bloody arm hanging out of it. “What
the…” Westman leaned over the cauldron and
pointed his light directly inside.
It was York – his bloody body mangled, twisted
and contorted into unnatural knots. “My God!”
Westman stumbled backwards and dropped his
flashlight and the bulb shattered. He tripped over
something behind him and fell flat on his back.
He looked behind him, as his only light source –
the partially open barn door – closed and locked
on its own. Westman‟s breathing picked up and
he was starting to panic. “Help me! Somebody
help me!” He rolled onto his stomach and began
to crawl in the direction he had seen the barn
doors close. He reached his arms out, gripped
the floor and pulled himself to his knees. He
stood up and looked around. It was too dark –
he didn‟t know which way was up. He spun
around aimlessly in circles, frantically looking for
any kind of salvation. “Help me!” he called out
again before being silenced by a whispering
“Shh…” Westman froze and he felt every single
hair on his body stand on end. He began to feel
flushed and flu-like. His beating heart felt like it
was going to burst from his chest. The icy touch
of a brittle and quivering hand gripped the back
of his neck and he screamed. He started to cry
as the ominous grasp tightened. The fingers
started to feel so cold that they burned.
Westman‟s eyes rolled into the back of his head
and he could no longer breath. The last thing he
thought of was the stench of his skin melting as
the blackness became darker......
Detective Miller sat in the Hilliard Police Station
an hour later with the old man who discovered
John‟s body. They sat together in a small
interrogation room. Miller hit record on a voice
recorder and slid it into the center of the table.
“State your name and age,” Miller said. “George
Courtney, 65 years old.” “Tell me, George, how
did you discover the body?” “We were at the
Harvest Festival and I was getting apple cider for
my granddaughter and I. My granddaughter
tugged on my shirt and asked me what that man
was dressed up as. I think she was a little
frightened by what we thought was a costume. I
saw the man walk out of the pond and I
approached him – I could tell something was off
with him. When I made contact with him, a
stream of muddy water spewed from his mouth
and he collapsed to the ground.” “Wait…he
walked out of the pond?” Miller questioned. “Yes,
sir. I know there are signs posted that say no
swimming, fishing or wading. I thought he was
just out to cause trouble.” “He walked?” Miller
asked again...
George nodded. “Yes. Why?” “Because that boy‟s
been dead for ten years. There‟s no way he
could have walked.” “Detective, I know I‟m
getting older,” George laughed, “but I know what
I saw.” Miller didn‟t respond. There were about a
million different thoughts racing through his head
– none of them even remotely plausible. As the
afternoon progressed, the clouds over Hilliard
started to darken and small rumbles of thunder
echoed in the distance. A cold wind blew
through the city, delivering a ghostlike chill.
There was a storm coming
The wind blew though the streets of Hilliard, off
of Main Street, and down Wakefield Dr. The dying
trees lining the old neighborhood roads let go of
their leaves one by one, and they gently road the
breeze down to the ground, collecting along the
curbs. A one-story house, midway down
Wakefield Dr., sat quietly. Inside, Holly and Kevin
Gibson remained on the couch. A kitchen knife
sat off to the side of the pumpkin on the coffee
table along with a plastic grocery bag for
discarding the pumpkins guts, but they had yet
to begin carving. The TV remained on, and they
had it back on the horror movie marathon, but
neither of them were paying much attention.
Holly was leaning her head back on the sofa
cushions and Kevin sat back deep in the couch
with his feet propped up on the glass coffee
table, scrolling through Facebook on his phone.
The TV flickered a few times, catching Kevin‟s
attention, and he looked to his left out the
window. The sky was darkening in the distance
and a few light raindrops hit the windows
Kevin looked back at his phone. The TV flickered
again, this time going black for longer periods of
time before the picture came back. Holly leaned
over and looked at Kevin‟s phone. “What time is
it?” “A little after three. Why?” “Just wondering,”
she said, yawning again
the Internet on his phone. He pulled up a screen
and spoke to himself quietly as he skimmed the
article. “Her name was Raven…guilty of
witchcraft in 1870, a year after Hilliard had been
incorporated…residents, confused and scared by
her dark practices, attacked her at her home on
Halloween night and set her on fire…Raven ran
into the cornfields where she burned to death…
body never recovered…”
Westman looked out the window to see if York
was on his way back yet. There was no sign of
him. Westman stepped out of the car and slipped
his phone back into his pocket. He shut the door
and put his hand on his gun holster as he started
to make his way up the driveway. The air was
getting colder and the cornstalks rustled as
Westman walked along the side of the house. A
loud „kaw‟ caught his attention and he looked up
into the sky. He watched the pitch black raven
fly overhead and land on the roof of the barn
again. Westman gulped nervously and moved
slowly towards the barn. The door was open and
he could see nothing but blackness inside. He
put his hand on the barn door and peeked his
head into the darkness
"York?” he quietly called out. There was no
answer from inside. Inside the barn, a creaking
sound emerged from the dark. It sounded like
someone walking on a fragile wooden floor.
Westman‟s heart began to beat faster – he
could feel it throbbing in his ears. “York?” he
whispered into the barn. He couldn‟t see
anything. He reached for the flashlight on his
belt and flipped it on. He pointed it into the
shadows and moved it along the back wall. In
the small glowing circle of light, he saw hay bails
sitting against the wall – one of them with a
pitchfork sticking straight out of the top of it. He
continued to slowly move the light across the
wall. There were boxes covered in white sheets,
rakes leaning up against the wall, and…a black
cauldron. Westman squinted to make sure he
saw it right. The cauldron was large – maybe
five feet across and three to four feet deep.
Something was sticking out of the top of it, but
he couldn‟t see what it was. Westman took a
small step into the barn and slowly walked
through it, keeping his flashlight focused on the
cauldron. He got close enough and noticed that
there was a bloody arm hanging out of it. “What
the…” Westman leaned over the cauldron and
pointed his light directly inside.
It was York – his bloody body mangled, twisted
and contorted into unnatural knots. “My God!”
Westman stumbled backwards and dropped his
flashlight and the bulb shattered. He tripped over
something behind him and fell flat on his back.
He looked behind him, as his only light source –
the partially open barn door – closed and locked
on its own. Westman‟s breathing picked up and
he was starting to panic. “Help me! Somebody
help me!” He rolled onto his stomach and began
to crawl in the direction he had seen the barn
doors close. He reached his arms out, gripped
the floor and pulled himself to his knees. He
stood up and looked around. It was too dark –
he didn‟t know which way was up. He spun
around aimlessly in circles, frantically looking for
any kind of salvation. “Help me!” he called out
again before being silenced by a whispering
“Shh…” Westman froze and he felt every single
hair on his body stand on end. He began to feel
flushed and flu-like. His beating heart felt like it
was going to burst from his chest. The icy touch
of a brittle and quivering hand gripped the back
of his neck and he screamed. He started to cry
as the ominous grasp tightened. The fingers
started to feel so cold that they burned.
Westman‟s eyes rolled into the back of his head
and he could no longer breath. The last thing he
thought of was the stench of his skin melting as
the blackness became darker......
Detective Miller sat in the Hilliard Police Station
an hour later with the old man who discovered
John‟s body. They sat together in a small
interrogation room. Miller hit record on a voice
recorder and slid it into the center of the table.
“State your name and age,” Miller said. “George
Courtney, 65 years old.” “Tell me, George, how
did you discover the body?” “We were at the
Harvest Festival and I was getting apple cider for
my granddaughter and I. My granddaughter
tugged on my shirt and asked me what that man
was dressed up as. I think she was a little
frightened by what we thought was a costume. I
saw the man walk out of the pond and I
approached him – I could tell something was off
with him. When I made contact with him, a
stream of muddy water spewed from his mouth
and he collapsed to the ground.” “Wait…he
walked out of the pond?” Miller questioned. “Yes,
sir. I know there are signs posted that say no
swimming, fishing or wading. I thought he was
just out to cause trouble.” “He walked?” Miller
asked again...
George nodded. “Yes. Why?” “Because that boy‟s
been dead for ten years. There‟s no way he
could have walked.” “Detective, I know I‟m
getting older,” George laughed, “but I know what
I saw.” Miller didn‟t respond. There were about a
million different thoughts racing through his head
– none of them even remotely plausible. As the
afternoon progressed, the clouds over Hilliard
started to darken and small rumbles of thunder
echoed in the distance. A cold wind blew
through the city, delivering a ghostlike chill.
There was a storm coming
The wind blew though the streets of Hilliard, off
of Main Street, and down Wakefield Dr. The dying
trees lining the old neighborhood roads let go of
their leaves one by one, and they gently road the
breeze down to the ground, collecting along the
curbs. A one-story house, midway down
Wakefield Dr., sat quietly. Inside, Holly and Kevin
Gibson remained on the couch. A kitchen knife
sat off to the side of the pumpkin on the coffee
table along with a plastic grocery bag for
discarding the pumpkins guts, but they had yet
to begin carving. The TV remained on, and they
had it back on the horror movie marathon, but
neither of them were paying much attention.
Holly was leaning her head back on the sofa
cushions and Kevin sat back deep in the couch
with his feet propped up on the glass coffee
table, scrolling through Facebook on his phone.
The TV flickered a few times, catching Kevin‟s
attention, and he looked to his left out the
window. The sky was darkening in the distance
and a few light raindrops hit the windows
Kevin looked back at his phone. The TV flickered
again, this time going black for longer periods of
time before the picture came back. Holly leaned
over and looked at Kevin‟s phone. “What time is
it?” “A little after three. Why?” “Just wondering,”
she said, yawning again
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